Joseph Goebbels in Italy, 1933
«We had barely left Munich on our train in the evening when he gave us — a travel group of barely twenty people, which was considered quite a lot at the time — rules of conduct. It struck me as somewhat naive, but apparently some of them needed it. "Let no one imagine that he has a duty to export National Socialism! As soon as we have crossed the border, our political views are our private affair — what others think is their private affair. We are not crossing the border as apostles, like the pagan Bolsheviks and the Christian English do, but as people who want to learn something and who are in great need of winning friends, do you understand me?" Shortly afterwards, we were officially greeted at the Brenner by the fascist head of government of the province of South Tyrol, on behalf of the Italian government. In South Tyrol! "What others think is their private affair!"
The next day at noon, our train rolled into Rome. Goebbels was very excited and extremely irritable, as was usually the case in such situations. I had handed over all the suitcases to our driver, Tonak. He was to ensure that all the luggage reached the hotel as quickly as possible so that we could change immediately, as quickly as possible, according to protocol. On the platform stood Benito Mussolini with all his ministers, an honor guard of the Militia, music, many high officials of the state and leading personalities of the Fascist Party. Red carpets had been laid out and the station was magnificently decorated with flowers. The cheerful sounds of "Giovinezza" welcomed us.
Our Tonak had been holding the door of the salon car for some time, ready to open it at the exact right moment. Goebbels and Mussolini were already beaming at each other. The train was still moving, very slowly, then there was a jolt and it stopped exactly to the centimeter in the right place. But the heavy door slammed shut — and Tonak's fingers were caught in it. We opened the door. Goebbels and Mussolini were initially separated by the unconscious Tonak. Was this a bad omen? Tonak was removed, and the ceremonial reception — delayed by only a few seconds — went ahead as planned. From the station, our long car convoy drove to the beautiful Grand Hotel, where we stayed. In an hour, we were to be received by the king. So: unpack and change as quickly as possible. Required attire: morning coat, top hat, and white gloves.
Where were the suitcases, especially the Minister's? We found them. Locked, of course. Tonak had all the keys. But Tonak was still unconscious. He was lying on his bed in his hotel room. We searched all his pockets and finally found a bunch of keys. Some of the keys fit. We found everything — except a top hat for the Minister. My top hat might have fit him. But of all people, I was scheduled to accompany the Minister to the audience with the King, so I needed my own top hat.
Tonak regained consciousness for a moment. We bombarded him with questions: "Dear, good Tonak — where is the Minister's top hat?"
This question seemed to horrify him. Each time, he immediately fell back into unconsciousness. Hopeless!
I hurried up and down the wide, long corridors of the hotel, imploring all the many attachés of the Italian Foreign Ministry: "Please get a top hat for our Minister!" I spoke German in desperation — I repeated it in English and stumbled through it in French — yes, I even tried to make myself understood in Italian. "For selection," I said, "as quickly as possible — and as many as possible — and please only from the best shops — do you understand?" Size? "Not too small, maybe 58, but I don't know exactly!"
It really didn't take long, although it seemed like an eternity to me, until very pretty, young salesgirls appeared from many different shops with countless hat boxes. Someone had told them who it was who needed a top hat so urgently, because they immediately conquered his room, and when I entered, he was already standing there in the midst of all these salesgirls. He was hardly visible. But since they all looked so charming and spoke to him so nicely, he let them plop one top hat after another onto his head. Sometimes one would slip down over his ears, which looked very funny, and everyone laughed heartily about it. He himself put on a brave face — he couldn't communicate with these girls at all. I fetched one of the attachés to help. Goebbels was against top hats, found such a thing terribly uncomfortable and antiquated. He was embarrassed to wear one. He recognized his defeat, and that apparently amused him. Not only him.
From the memoirs of Prince Schaumburg-Lippe
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